


And was it something you could not stop

by ParadifeLoft



Series: I Will Burn Hotter Than the Sun [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Curufin feeling emotions what?, M/M, Nargothrond, general misery, gentle is never an applicable adjective, vague!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:45:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/pseuds/ParadifeLoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod will leave with Beren in the morning. Curufin will keep what he can take and destroy the rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And was it something you could not stop

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a collection of shortfic pieces, organised around the general theme of the sons of Fëanor being rather reminiscent of a centuries-long trainwreck.  
> This takes as a background assumption that Finrod and Curufin were involved in an... interesting and mutually destructive relationship dynamic of some sort for a good most of the time that Curufin lived in Nargothrond. (This went without saying for this fic's original audience, but I figured I should probably be specific about that for maximum intelligibility otherwise.)

He had always filled the silences with words. Words to tease and words to provoke, to prod and twist and claw beneath his skin and expose a mass of bloody tissue beneath. Now the only of those words left were meant for others (would destroy his cousin more completely than any before), but he had cast them out for a time and the silence left in their wake smothered like the void.

Shadows from the single candle they'd left burning fashioned his features into a series of individuals, of masks. Each shifted after seconds to the next, and the next; half the time showing not a single difference from months, years past.

But he could feel the change, in the fingers digging into his skin, in the mouth at his collarbone, in the shuddering breaths expanding against his chest. Hated it, hated how it had joined the silence to choke the air from him and left him no pleasure in doing so.

So he raked fingernails down his back (hoped it'd bleed and stain the sheets while they slept), and caressed his golden hair, and gasped into the hollow of his throat at each overwhelming touch, that scattered the silence to the corners of the world so as to suffocate in their own way.

A great weight settled over him when they were finally still, from the almost-darkness, and the form against him, the gentle arm across his neck, the palm along his jaw and fingers tangled in his hair.

The halls between their quarters later in the night were cold, and the walls he saw were made of ghosts.


End file.
